You were my halogen, guiding me home
My only weapon when I was alone
She belonged to the Gods. Her bones were strung together with the myths and legends of Glacia, muscles pulled tight with the promise of something greater. A heart began beating for those stories, for the vow of a larger figure who would guide them all to glory. She held on to these assurances, fought for herself and all the traditions she was not part of. She was not born a colt in a world where males took the throne; she was not a colt in a world where males sent themselves to battle camps and learned to fight; quite simply, she was not a colt in a world where males survived. But she challenged their beliefs. She trusted Glacia, put her faith in a figure that only existed in fables. She pushed her way through a system that said she could be nothing more than a pretty face who sat by idly and watched Hiemsterra move without her. She bested a beast of their Court; she became something—someone.
She survived.
But that was a time when she had a warrior's heart, her soul entwined with the spirit of a great wolf. She protected her pack; she led them toward all that Glacia drove her to, to something bigger than they were. The Winter Kingdom of Veteris held her in its arms and in turn she gave them all she had to offer under its crown. Battle Prowess kept those searching for threats at bay, Kind Hand keeping the people happy, Strategy building a better future. It wouldn't last, though—couldn't—for things were never linear when power became a question and hungry eyes locked onto ways to exploit the weak. Novus' tales of bloodshed and horror crossed the boarders of snow and ice, and in response she gave up a throne. She gave up the promise of Glacia. She didn't look back once. The glorious wolf trekked, skirmished tooth and nail to find the edge of Novus and stake a new claim in its lands. She heard of their Gods. She heard of the peoples' struggle and how they fought to stay alive, just as she had tried to make a name for herself. Their call to arms pulled her in, and their persistence made her stay; Erynvale took hold of the Night Court and so she moved to one of all heart and will. Dusk saw her standing at their side, and so her loyalty to Vespera was forged. The falling day of the final meeting she would hold under the Dusk crown would no longer see her as Rannveig, however. With her resignation she would be stripped of all honor, of a name she earned to prove herself. It was gone, just as the last whisper of a painted girl would only be held in memories of those who cared to remember.
On that mountain, there, where the day was dying and the colors of a changing sky would soon turn to those of her own blues, she wasn't Rannveig the Winter Wolf. She was Silanos, the first-born daughter of a land that prayed for a son. She was no warrior that slept in open snow and drug pseudo-enemies into the ground; no Valkyrie who deserved a title other than the birth name given in disenchantment. At the foot of a God's shrine she had withered into nothing, and perhaps that was all she would ever be.
The tear fell and all was still. The air that once twirled its fingers into her hair left her alone with her thoughts, eyes closed in shame. The darkness consumed her but soon it consumed everything around her, too. The slow transfer of light from sky to statue made eyes open, first in confusion and then disbelief. The world was black, but there in front of her upon the keep of the figure was a brilliance that drew her in. She didn't move, didn't dare allow a twitch to escape muscles else the vision disappeared. The illusion was lackadaisical almost, a calm transmission from solid to real. The stone peeled apart as though words from a page, melting into something even more palpable. And though it came to life before her, Rannveig's pulse did not quicken; there was no trepidation, no tremor, unease. Bright teal eyes reflected the colors of Dusk back onto the transforming bust as the draft of a wind picked up the spaces between them. The brilliance of the shine was a warmth that did not cause pain, and so, instead of turning away as she had done so many times before, she faced it straight on and held a chilled breath.
Everything emanated around the then fully-formed figure of Vespera. Rann had felt the shivers of the earth beneath the mountain, but knew nothing of its cause. The upheaval of the Gods in their dormant state was no news to her, for she was too late to experience any of the talk; upon her reentry into their lands, she left her partner and child behind to find the steps to the Peak. It was something she needed to do alone, a redemption she had to find for herself. It was an apology not only to her, but to the one she turned her back on. To the God that then stood before her.
The words were quite an ethereal thing to hear; for though there were tales of Gods once being alive alongside mortals, never had Rann encountered such. Still bowed, the touch of skin on skin sent a long awaited quiver sloping across her body. The veil had finally broken, and she once again became responsive—knees unbent, a head hung low slipped upward to meet that of Vespera's. Questions tucked themselves neatly into the folds of her bi-colored ears, from a voice that was bigger than everything she was. How could she explain that she was left without direction, that she had lost sense of herself and her purpose? That she had delegated the ground to be the only spot she deserved to rest? She could form no sounds of her own until the last of the Goddess's faded, silence between them filled with an energy that abashed even the heat of battle.
With a gust of air finally came the words she held away for so long, thick nordic accent lilting around them. "I failed your crown. Your kingdom... I left it." There were no other tears, but she was not whole; she rattled, and it was explicit enough that Vespera saw through her. A hole, yes, but the stitching had come undone some time ago. "I serve you no purpose." For though she spent a life grooming to rule, to lead, she fled and left the vacant space for a child. And though she was once a great warrior, she had nothing left to fight for.
"After all time that passed, after years of heartache of many, why show now? Why appear to me?"
She survived.
But that was a time when she had a warrior's heart, her soul entwined with the spirit of a great wolf. She protected her pack; she led them toward all that Glacia drove her to, to something bigger than they were. The Winter Kingdom of Veteris held her in its arms and in turn she gave them all she had to offer under its crown. Battle Prowess kept those searching for threats at bay, Kind Hand keeping the people happy, Strategy building a better future. It wouldn't last, though—couldn't—for things were never linear when power became a question and hungry eyes locked onto ways to exploit the weak. Novus' tales of bloodshed and horror crossed the boarders of snow and ice, and in response she gave up a throne. She gave up the promise of Glacia. She didn't look back once. The glorious wolf trekked, skirmished tooth and nail to find the edge of Novus and stake a new claim in its lands. She heard of their Gods. She heard of the peoples' struggle and how they fought to stay alive, just as she had tried to make a name for herself. Their call to arms pulled her in, and their persistence made her stay; Erynvale took hold of the Night Court and so she moved to one of all heart and will. Dusk saw her standing at their side, and so her loyalty to Vespera was forged. The falling day of the final meeting she would hold under the Dusk crown would no longer see her as Rannveig, however. With her resignation she would be stripped of all honor, of a name she earned to prove herself. It was gone, just as the last whisper of a painted girl would only be held in memories of those who cared to remember.
On that mountain, there, where the day was dying and the colors of a changing sky would soon turn to those of her own blues, she wasn't Rannveig the Winter Wolf. She was Silanos, the first-born daughter of a land that prayed for a son. She was no warrior that slept in open snow and drug pseudo-enemies into the ground; no Valkyrie who deserved a title other than the birth name given in disenchantment. At the foot of a God's shrine she had withered into nothing, and perhaps that was all she would ever be.
The tear fell and all was still. The air that once twirled its fingers into her hair left her alone with her thoughts, eyes closed in shame. The darkness consumed her but soon it consumed everything around her, too. The slow transfer of light from sky to statue made eyes open, first in confusion and then disbelief. The world was black, but there in front of her upon the keep of the figure was a brilliance that drew her in. She didn't move, didn't dare allow a twitch to escape muscles else the vision disappeared. The illusion was lackadaisical almost, a calm transmission from solid to real. The stone peeled apart as though words from a page, melting into something even more palpable. And though it came to life before her, Rannveig's pulse did not quicken; there was no trepidation, no tremor, unease. Bright teal eyes reflected the colors of Dusk back onto the transforming bust as the draft of a wind picked up the spaces between them. The brilliance of the shine was a warmth that did not cause pain, and so, instead of turning away as she had done so many times before, she faced it straight on and held a chilled breath.
Everything emanated around the then fully-formed figure of Vespera. Rann had felt the shivers of the earth beneath the mountain, but knew nothing of its cause. The upheaval of the Gods in their dormant state was no news to her, for she was too late to experience any of the talk; upon her reentry into their lands, she left her partner and child behind to find the steps to the Peak. It was something she needed to do alone, a redemption she had to find for herself. It was an apology not only to her, but to the one she turned her back on. To the God that then stood before her.
The words were quite an ethereal thing to hear; for though there were tales of Gods once being alive alongside mortals, never had Rann encountered such. Still bowed, the touch of skin on skin sent a long awaited quiver sloping across her body. The veil had finally broken, and she once again became responsive—knees unbent, a head hung low slipped upward to meet that of Vespera's. Questions tucked themselves neatly into the folds of her bi-colored ears, from a voice that was bigger than everything she was. How could she explain that she was left without direction, that she had lost sense of herself and her purpose? That she had delegated the ground to be the only spot she deserved to rest? She could form no sounds of her own until the last of the Goddess's faded, silence between them filled with an energy that abashed even the heat of battle.
With a gust of air finally came the words she held away for so long, thick nordic accent lilting around them. "I failed your crown. Your kingdom... I left it." There were no other tears, but she was not whole; she rattled, and it was explicit enough that Vespera saw through her. A hole, yes, but the stitching had come undone some time ago. "I serve you no purpose." For though she spent a life grooming to rule, to lead, she fled and left the vacant space for a child. And though she was once a great warrior, she had nothing left to fight for.
"After all time that passed, after years of heartache of many, why show now? Why appear to me?"
@Random Events actually dead <3
changed the timeline to fit the god's arrivals!
